The Emporers Men

by Dirk van den Boom

  “Then my reports. Who is in command in the East?”

  The tribune, who now seemed much more relaxed than before supper, walked armed with a cup of wine to the map. “Richomer belongs to those who have taken command of the remaining troops, sir. The highest surviving leader is Flavius Victor, but he is seriously injured. Sebastianus has remained on the battlefield. In Constantinople the consistory rules, until further notice, under the chairmanship of the Minister of Finance and Praetorian Prefect.”

  “Modestus – not a fool but little military experience,” Malobaudes commented. “He lacks the knowledge to make the right decisions at this point of time.”

  “Where do the remaining troops gather?” asked Gratian.

  “Nowhere, at least not when I was sent by Richomer to you. It is a shambles. The Goths are out of control. They plunder the villages and avoid the cities. Fritigern has completely lost control of some of his men after defeating us. They are intoxicated by their victory.”

  Gratian had expected little else. Fritigern was a Gothic king, and as much as it was the case with the Alemans, a man with fluctuating, vaguely defined authority. The victory had contributed to his prestige and of course if he would call for another battle, he most likely would able to unite the various tribes under his banner again, no doubt about it. But in the meantime, sub-chiefs and nobles would see what could be gained for them from this victory, and this probably even with the discreet acceptance of Fritigern. Gratian thought it even possible that Valens’ death had been occurred without knowledge of the Gothic king, and without his command. It wasn’t the time to connect the leader of the Goths with all the misdeeds. Revenge was a feeling that you could indulge in very easily, but it didn’t make political sense, not as a rule.

  “What will the Goths do next?”

  The tribune looked perplexed. “Lord, no one knows. The situation is out of control. When we …”

  He paused, and something like guilt crept into his face.

  “We have treated the Goths certainly wrong.”

  “Can we negotiate with Fritigern?” asked Malobaudes.

  “Lord, I don’t know. Fritigern always made quite a reasonable impression to us … until we had gone too far. If you make the right offer, he might be willing to negotiate.”

  “Doesn’t mean that all of his subordinates are of the same opinion and will join a deal,” Malobaudes said.

  “That wouldn’t be a problem,” said Gratian now thoughtfully. “Fritigern has prestige. Many of the Goths would follow him. Even if it would be only two-thirds, that would be sufficient. With the rest we can deal militarily. Imponderable is what the smaller groups of Alans and Huns will do, as they fought with Fritigern. Can he control them? I don’t know.”

  Malobaudes nodded. This variant of the good old Roman strategy “divide and rule” had worked well several times. Gratian had internalized the lessons of Ausonius well. With this approach, they would actually be able to succeed.

  “Tribune, you rest now. Tomorrow we will hold a council of war and talk more and I want to you to join us.”

  “I’m at your service, my Emperor.”

  “Retire now, if you please.”

  There was no need for any further invitation. Constantly bowing, the exhausted officer left the tent.

  Gratian looked after him.

  “We need a new emperor in the east,” he affirmed. “I cannot do this alone.”

  “Nothing to hurry about, sir,” suggested the General. “Let us all have some rest now. There is no use to make these decisions too quickly and being tired.”

  “You’re right. Tomorrow morning. We cancel the march eastwards until further notice. It makes no sense to move into the unknown and endanger our forces unnecessarily.”

  So everything was said and the tent emptied. Gratian stopped in front of the map of the Empire, and wondered for a moment how it felt to be sole emperor of the entire Roman Empire. Then he thought back to how his famous predecessors Traian or Diocletian or his father Valentinian felt once, crushed by the power of memory, thinking of the deeds of their forefathers. Even the Empire under Diocletian had been different than the one he now ruled. His reforms had helped to continue its existence, but more and more the spirit of his policy was undermined and Gratian knew with every day less what he could do about it. If the constant threat on the frontiers wouldn’t persist, perhaps he could finally stabilize the peace and the structure of the empire from within. But his energy was depleted by riding from one battlefield to the next.

  He remembered a saying that was awarded to Marcus Aurelius, the philosopher emperor: “Often the one who does nothing, does wrong. Who doesn’t fight injustice, if he can, commands it.” This statement haunted him since the time when Ausonius had read the works of the old emperor to him. If he did wrong by omission, then hesitation was another step into the abyss. But when he made the wrong decision in haste, then the disaster could be much greater. Gratian had respected his step-uncle Valens because he was named co-emperor by his father and he earned respect as the older one. Yet he had never doubted that Valens’ procrastination and his dependence on the advice of his court – well-meaning officials as well as charlatans – would cause his downfall. That it had been hasty speed and lack of self-control which caused his defeat sounded like the kind of irony of life, for which Marcus Aurelius had always been very understanding.

  “It would be silly to fret over the world,” Gratian murmured dreamily. “She does not care.”

  Another insight of the old emperor.

  “Elevius?”

  As if by magic, the old manservant appeared out of nowhere.

  “You called, sir.”

  “I will go to bed early.”

  “You have need of rest.”

  “I need to think about many issues indeed. Prepare my bed and …”

  Gratian hesitated.

  “… and fetch my edition of Marcus Aurelius’ Meditations. I feel the need to learn from the wisdom of my forefathers.”

  Elevius bowed.

  22

  Thomas Volkert was pale. Deathly pale, as some would say. It wasn’t enough that Captain Rheinberg had summoned him to express his anger about the behavior of the young ensign. No, he’d have to do this before the assembled officers. His speech was quite short. He used words like “irresponsible” and “reckless,” and those had been the most polite terms. He had made it clear what he thought of Volkert’s stupidity, and he had announced full arrest for him on the ship and three weeks of double-shifts. After the ensign had been allowed to sit with a red face, the discussion was immediately drawn to other issues, of which Volkert had been quite grateful. But the stealthy, partly joyous looks of his comrades hurt. It took him several minutes to be aware that the biggest pain was triggered by the fact that he had no chance to reunite with Julia in the foreseeable future.

  It was a kind of pain such as he had never known before, very deep and upsetting, combined with a longing whose strength was also new for him. The feeling contributed to his confusion as well as to his sorrow.

  Thomas Volkert felt quite miserable and listened with limited attention to the discussion of the “War Council,” as Rheinberg called the inner circle of officers.

  The real topic of this meeting had not been Volkert’s misstep, but a first report of the chief engineer.

  “Captain, firstly I have a list of all crew members who enjoyed some kind of technical training.”

  Dahms handed Rheinberg a sheet of paper, which he accepted with a nod.

  “Give us a summary,” Rheinberg asked him.

  “In addition to three marine engineers, we have a carpenter on board. A trained carpenter who never actually passed his master-exam, but apparently quite competent. We have seven men with good training: Two turners, a blacksmith, a carpenter, a baker, a cook and a butcher. Another fifteen claim that they had some learning and practice, but never passed the journeyman’s examination, and from four I know that probably this is true, including a blac
ksmith apprentice, who works pretty well with me. We have seven men on board who have worked in mining, each with more than two years work experience. They have learned all sorts of clever things that we can use. I have in my department three good machinists and two coal-workers who both have been steelworkers, one with a decent education, but without any examination. All our men have sniffed into one or the other craft. We even have two charcoal makers on the ship, who could prove to be very helpful to us.”

  “In fact,” confirmed Rheinberg. “What do we lack most?”

  Dahms looked as though he wouldn’t know where to start.

  “Captain, we need just three things: We need something for firing, so that the machines run. We need lubricant. And we need spare parts. The first problem can be solved: the Saarbrücken can also burn wood if needed. The efficiency is ghastly and we need tons, but it is not impossible. Moreover, we can easily produce charcoal by ourselves, which increases the efficiency again – and even better with appropriate assistance from the officials here in Ravenna. We know that there are exposed coal reserves in the Empire, which are even used sparingly, not on a large scale. With the support of the Emperor, we could get access and be able to cover this our greatest need in the long term.”

  “That sounds pretty good,” commented Rheinberg.

  “This was the easiest problem. I have no idea what to do about the lubricants. Our machines operate with superheated steam, so we cannot use natural fats and oils. We would ideally need refined mineral oils to keep the machines running. But I’m still looking for substitutes.”

  Dahms stopped. Rheinberg wasn’t inclined to comment further.

  “Well … So, to find oil itself should be possible. As I have heard there is something like open oil sources, if I’m not mistaken. Again, once the Emperor helps us to gain access to crude oil, the problem is solved. Second one is: We lack the chemical industry to even begin to make somewhat like usable mineral oils. Therefore, I still have no solution.”

  “What about naphtha?” asked Joergensen, the second officer. He wasn’t known for his exceptional knowledge of history, so he drew surprised looks. The young lieutenant turned a bit red, but when he saw Rheinberg’s nod, he continued.

  “Naphtha was used in ancient times for something similar to a flamethrower.”

  “So?” asked Dahms.

  “If I remember correctly, it was nothing more than mineral oil made from rape.”

  Dahms’ face showed understanding.

  “I would like to suggest that when it is heated to over 100 degrees, you can drive out the water, and if you then add vegetable ash, so that the sulfur is bound as sulfide …”

  Rheinberg frowned. “You are a chemist, Joergensen?”

  “No, Captain. But I admit to had certain pleasure in experiments with fire as a student, which meant that my friend Karl and I have made some inquiries … We wanted to, if I remember correctly, recreate a flamethrower of the Greeks. We were 14. Maybe a bit precocious.”

  The second officer looked convincingly embarrassed, but did notice with relief that everyone present grinned broadly.

  “Then you have chosen the right profession,” said Dahms. “And your idea has merit. I’ll sit and discuss this with the artificer of our infantrymen. I have a feeling that he could contribute to the discussion. I have it written down in any case and we will as soon as possible begin with our experiments. Ultimately, I fear, there will remain no choice but to try to convert the boilers from steam to saturated steam. Thus, the Saarbrücken will be slower, but the heat is much lower and we can therefore also work with poorer oils. That will mean a lot of effort, but it is possible.”

  “I don’t expect miracles, Dahms,” affirmed Rheinberg and nodded gratefully to Joergensen. “How long will our supplies last?”

  “With great caution and lower load on the machines – about a year. Probably less.”

  “The third problem.”

  “Yes, exactly. Steel production is a difficult field. We have a good workshop and well-trained crewmen, and we can provide some of the necessary replacement parts and produce molds. The problem is that we unfortunately don’t have a furnace on board. We can replace a few things through cast iron, but when it comes to the really reliable parts, only steel will help us. We don’t need tons, but we need to have something like a steel production get going if we want to keep the cruiser running. Again, in about a year things get critical if we don’t have serious damage because of strain even before.”

  “Steel. There is no furnace in the Roman Empire, which can generate the necessary temperature. Iron ore is not a problem, even the other commodities should be accessible,” Rheinberg said with a thoughtful tone. “But we have to heat up to about 1600 degrees, and that is only possible …”

  “… if we build a puddling furnace,” Dahms completed the sentence. “We need many workers, plenty of space and a certain infrastructure. The underlying principle is not that complex and I think we have the necessary knowledge on board. We won’t resurrect the Ruhr region, we need a single puddling furnace, which covers our own needs. Here, too, Captain, we need a safe harbor. You must arrange things with the Emperor.”

  “I’m working on it. Fine, these have been the three urgent problems. Now a few more: weapons and ammunition.”

  Dahms put his forehead in sorrowful wrinkles.

  “We can’t produce the ammunition for our guns. Also the guns themselves, any replacement, will be impossible. If we have steel – maybe I can work something out. Ultimately, however, all will be irreparable and we can’t fix everything endlessly. Therefore, I have a very different proposal.”

  “We listen.”

  Dahms took a deep breath.

  “What I say now, ultimately, covers the basics, Captain. Also for the Saarbrücken. Even if everything goes perfectly, I don’t think that we can keep our ship functional for more than three or four years. Until then, we need an alternative. And that can only be in it if we make cuts.”

  “What kind of compromise?” Becker wanted to know now.

  “We have to make a technological step back, which is for the Romans still a giant leap forward. We need to see what can be produced with local resources, if we provide the necessary knowledge. There are materials available: Bronze is not a problem. We can build anything from bronze, even steam engines. Let us build steam engines and develop new ships – timber ships. Let us instead of guns and assault rifles think about what we can build with local resources realistically and in good quantities – black powder we can produce quickly. We have bronze. We probably have a bunch of perfectly capable blacksmiths.”

  “Muskets,” muttered Becker. Dahms nodded brightly. Becker, however, didn’t seem to share this enthusiasm throughout.

  “We can provide the whole damned legions with muskets,” the chief engineer said eagerly. “We can build cast-iron cannons and manufacture corresponding balls with propellant charges of black powder. We can begin professional mining – with a bronze steam engine we can drive a generator and produce light, heat, or make ice. We can build pumps and drive tunnels into the mountains. So much is possible. We don’t even have to start building cannons; let’s begin with steam catapults.”

  Rheinberg looked pensively at the table. “The Western Empire was finally doomed when Genseric conquered Africa’s breadbasket with his Vandals. A fleet of ocean-going steamships with catapults and musketeers could prevent this without us having to show up with the Saarbrücken everywhere. Against other enemies the profit is less: The Huns under Attila will not be impressed by a few musketeer-legions, so we have to think of something else.”

  Becker nodded. “Muskets are inaccurate and don’t fire far. The idea doesn’t make me happy.”

  Rheinberg looked up and directly into Dahms’ excited face.

  “This is still awesome. We have to succeed. We‘ll find alternatives. A step back for us, but a great leap forward for Rome. Let them all come, the Huns and the rest of them. They will have no chance against the new
Rome.”

  Dahms nodded. “But to do all that we need more than just a base, Captain. We need the full support of the Emperor. We need many workers. We need time. We need to stomp a whole industry out of the ground. I … I can’t foresee everything. And we need a dry dock.”

  “A dry dock?”

  “We need to have a place where we can put the Saarbrücken for an overhaul. The water in the Mediterranean is very aggressive, the rust will quickly turn worse. Fortunately, we got the hull overhauled before our departure from Wilhelmshaven and we have a lot of special paint on board, so it will last a while. But once it is finished … the old lady will slowly but surely rot away. I don’t even know what we can use as a substitute to prevent that. I fear that no matter what we do, eventually the rust will break our neck, simple as that.”

  Dahms threw up his arms in mock despair.

  “One after the other,” calmed Rheinberg the visions the engineer had apparently been infected with. “First we need to come to good terms with Gratian. Renna wants to send a delegation to Sirmium, where the Emperor resides with his troops. We have to send a strong fighting troop there, and very quickly. And then we have to convince the Emperor that he allows us to solve the problem with the Goths for him. And once we accomplished that, we will be able to make further plans.”

  “Where is this Sirmium? I’ve never heard of it,” Becker asked.

  Rheinberg rose. In a closet at the head end of the room lay curled up all kinds of maps, and once the captain found a specific one, he immediately rolled it out on the table. All bent over and followed Rheinberg’s forefinger on the map.

  “Sirmium was an important garrison town in the east of the Mediterranean,” said the captain. “She was even at a time imperial residence. Today …” He paused. “In our time there are only a few ruins. It was about here … west of Belgrade, near the Danube.”

  “We go over the Adriatic sea and land at … Spalato?”

  Neumann’s idea was quickly accepted as a good proposal.